


Battle Buddies Style

by BDBriggs



Series: Curiosity and cats, and all that [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - GTA, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, FAHC, Fake AH Crew, GTA setting, Gen, Graphic Violence, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, Violence, battle buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-09-25 00:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20367493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BDBriggs/pseuds/BDBriggs
Summary: Jeremy joins the Fakes. It's the best thing to happen to Ryan (and maybe even the Fakes) in a long time. Ryan's life is goddamn amazing, right up until it isn't.Sequel to The Usual





	1. The Bones

**Author's Note:**

> This work will be four chapters, updated on Fridays. I already have it all written and I'm SO excited to share it with you all. This chapter is a little short and rough, but they pick up in size (and drama) as they go on!
> 
> Enjoy <3

Jeremy joins the Fakes.

It’s the best thing that’s happened to Ryan in a long time. Not only is his Battle Buddy safe, he’s here in Los Santos, and he’s a member of Ryan’s crew. He’s admittedly a low-ranking member, but Ryan’s confident that he’ll rise among the ranks quickly.

Geoff doesn’t mention Ryan and Jeremy’s history to anyone in the crew, for which they’re both thankful. It gives both of them time to adjust to the change, to having each other around again. Besides, the prospect of being able to dramatically reveal their history is more than a little exciting.

_Dramatic theater fuck,_ Jeremy calls him. On more than one occasion.

Ryan gets Geoff a reservation at the fancy steak restaurant downtown as thanks, and as apology for the whole kitchen debacle. He might be an asshole, but he’s not a _monster_, and maybe it was an inopportune moment to fuck with his boss.

Maybe.

Anyways. Ryan’s still confined to the penthouse because of the gang war with the Bones. The Vagabond is there when they need to send a message and while he’s a damn good assassin, right now the Fakes need to play things subtle. Unfortunately, that means that Ryan goes stir-crazy, the itch to _do something_ burning beneath his skin.

Jeremy’s position with the Bones gives them access to a wealth of information; names, locations, guard rotations, and plans. Under Trevor’s guidance, he “mugs” the Fakes and hands the Bones small sums of money, burner phones, and papers with small tidbits of information. A number of real locations of warehouses and other properties belonging to the Fakes, with semi-real guard rotations and mostly fake rosters. All of it gears up towards the Bones attacking one of the Fakes’ properties. Ryan watches the Bones grow powerful, watches them get _cocky_, and knows they’ll try for something soon.

The Bones won’t be prepared to face the full might of the Fakes.

In addition to playing double agent, Jeremy starts hanging out with the rest of the crew. Ryan’s still holing up in the heist room most days, so he misses the introductions and whatnot, but he certainly hears about it all from Jeremy later.

It seems Gavin and Michael have taken a shine to the new recruit, which—it should worry Ryan. It _does_ worry him, to some extent, but not enough that he’ll do anything about it. It’s just that Jeremy has a hard time saying _no_ to things, this frustrating inability to pass up a challenge. Gavin and Michael are full of terrible ideas and challenges that should never see the light of day; introducing Jeremy to them is like handing a pack of mentos to a kid with an eCola. The result _will_ be explosive. With Jeremy thrown into the mix, the Fakes are going to get a hell of a lot more dangerous. (Although whether they’re more dangerous to others or to themselves is anyone’s guess).

Still, Ryan’s glad to hear about how well Jeremy gets along with the crew. He feels a burst of pride whenever Jeremy tells him about how much he enjoys working with the Fakes. There’s this little voice inside him singing _look Jeremy, look what I found, this is my family, look at how wonderful they are_. And it’s everything Ryan ever wanted; he has a crew, a family, and Jeremy—all in one place, under one roof.

The lads and Jack start going on jobs with Jeremy; partly to test him out, partly to get used to working together. The Fakes will need to work as a unit when they fight the Bones and a little practice never hurts. Geoff and Jeremy both tell Ryan all about the jobs, about how well Jeremy fits in with the crew. It makes his chest swell with joy and pride to hear that Jeremy gets along with the Fakes so well. Ryan is overjoyed and happier than he’s been in a long time, because life is _good_.

Life is goddamn amazing until Jeremy walks into the penthouse in what can only be described as a _fashion crime_, holy shit. Ryan’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and talking to Michael, when Jeremy bounces out of the elevator with Gavin in tow. Ryan stops mid-sentence, mouth flopping open and closed like a fish, completely at a loss for words as he takes in Jeremy’s outfit.

“What the _fuck_,” Ryan manages at last.

Jeremy, damn him, just starts laughing that bright and bursting laugh of his. The other two grin widely at Ryan’s horror.

“Oh, this is Rimmy Tim!” Gavin says, lips twitching furiously as he tries to smother his grin, “I forgot you two haven’t met!”

And they _have _met, of course, but Ryan’s never seen Jeremy’s work getup. It’s the worst thing Ryan’s seen since the heist where they all wore red with eagle masks. He’s dressed in an orange shirt, yellow pants, a purple blazer, a yellow mask, and a bright white cowboy hat to top it all off. And _Rimmy Tim_—

“Your name is Rimothy Timothy,” Ryan deadpans, still horrified, because _holy shit_ that’s terrible, even for Jeremy.

The lads break into a fresh wave of laughter, all three of them doubling over and leaning on each other for support. Ryan decides that maybe the heist room is safer than the kitchen and makes a hasty retreat, taking a deep breath when the door is closed securely behind him. 

The breath rushes out as a wheezy laugh, and several more wheezes follow as he replays the scene in his head. _Rimmy Tim_. He’d forgotten how ridiculous Jeremy could be, how he’d do something awful or disgusting just to horrify everyone around him (Ryan especially). The whole encounter in the kitchen was so _Jeremy_ that Ryan’s not even surprised, not really, only amused and mildly horrified.

Life is _grand_.

* * *

The Bones attack one of the Fakes’ main warehouses in the middle of the night.

It should upset Ryan. It should make him angry that someone dared attack his crew. It should make him worried that his crew is in danger. It should be stressful and scary and awful, but all Ryan feels is bone-deep satisfaction. The Bones have played right into their trap. Months of waiting and planning and preparation have led to this night, and Ryan knows the Fakes have the upper hand. They’ll win. They always do.

Ryan’s fidgety and restless on the way to the warehouse. The itch for action that’s been piling up for the last few months hasn’t gone away, not yet, and he’s uncomfortably anxious. They’re all piled into the Roosevelt, Jeremy and Michael on the outside, although Ryan knows for a fact that the B-team is behind them with his Zentorno and Michael’s Adder in case they need a faster retreat. Geoff sits with him in the backseat and presses their shoulders together when Ryan checks his guns for the umpteenth time.

“We’ll be alright,” Geoff says quietly.

Ryan nods. “We always are,” he agrees. They sit shoulder-to-shoulder for the rest of the drive, silently supporting one another. It kicks the anxiety and restless energy back a notch, enough that Ryan can hold still and breathe easy.

Jack brings them into the empty lot in front of the warehouse with flair—which is to say she hits the driveway at fifty, gets air, lands with a terrific scratching sound, and screeches sideways to a stop. The six of them burst into action, guns up and blazing as soon as the car stops moving. Ryan ducks and rolls and shoots and kills, letting muscle memory and reflex take the lead. They take out the Bones’ first line and the rest fall back, further into the warehouse.

There’s a lull in the shooting when the Bones retreat in which Ryan takes a deep breath and shakes his limbs a little. He’s still keyed up, even after the short firefight. The itch, the need for action, still burns under his skin.

Geoff checks the front door to find it locked. “I’m thinking we have someone break in through the back,” he says, “sneak in and scare the shit out of them, make them fight on two fronts.”

“Dibs,” Ryan says, because he _needs_ this, _needs_ the action.

Geoff hums. “Partner up with someone,” he says, letting Ryan choose who. And it’s easy, really, to make eye contact with Jeremy across the empty lot.

“I’ll go with him,” Jeremy says. “You know, don’t want to be recognized and have them realize I’m fucking them over.” The excuse is flimsy at best, but the others either don’t notice or don’t care enough to call him out. The two of them head to the heist vehicle. Ryan gets behind the wheel and takes a few deep breaths to try to calm the buzzing under his skin. “You alright, Rye?” Jeremy asks.

Ryan grunts. “Jittery. Need to do something.” 

“Then let’s go,” Jeremy says. “We’ll sneak in, take out everyone we can, all quiet and stuff.”

Ryan frowns. “Jeremy, I don’t think we’ve ever completed a stealth mission…_stealthily_,” he points out, not to be a dick, but it seems like an important point to make. _Ryan_ can do stealth, is damn good at it when he wants to be, but he and Jeremy together are the least stealthy people on the planet. Their style is loud, bright, and involves lots of explosions. Which is _awesome_, but maybe not exactly what they need right now.

“Good point,” Jeremy concedes. “Geoff just said to scare the shit out of them. The only part we have to do stealthily is sneak in, right?”

“And then inevitably get caught and go in guns blazing, because _fuck it?_” Ryan asks hopefully.

Jeremy laughs, bright and bursting. “Battle Buddies style!” He cheers.

Ryan grins in return and starts the car. “That might be the best thing I’ve heard all month,” he admits. He drives them out the way they came, although at a much more sedate pace than Jack’s. When the warehouse is no longer visible behind them, he takes two right turns to bring them back towards it, and then parks the car on a side-street a few blocks away.

They refill their ammo from the trunk before they set off. Jeremy picks out a crowbar and a pistol with a suppressor; Ryan grabs a heavy, oversized duffel bag from the bottom of the trunk. Jeremy eyes the bag suspiciously, but Ryan just winks. “Geoff got me a new toy,” he says by way of explanation.

“Oh boy,” Jeremy says, a note of dread creeping into his voice, “do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” Ryan says cheerfully, slinging the bag over his shoulder. He grabs his rifle and grins, because this is going to be _fun._ It hits him, then, that he’s no longer anxious. His skin buzzes with excitement rather than nerves. It’s been months since the Vagabond came out to play with the break after Ray left, then the murder break, and then the extended period of planning. Ryan had nearly forgotten how to have _fun_ with destruction, how to slip into the persona of the Vagabond and enjoy himself.

He and Jeremy quickly make their way to the back of the warehouse. There are no guards posted outside the back; the Bones must be preoccupied with whatever’s going on in the front. Jeremy uses the crowbar to open one of the windows on the ground floor and Ryan gives him a leg-up through the window. He lifts the duffel bag up to hand it over when he hears Jeremy gasp.

“Oh my god,” Jeremy whispers, “_Rye_.”

“_What?_” Ryan hisses, nightmare scenarios running through his head. He hears Jeremy’s gun go off, the suppressed pistol from the trunk, and Ryan dumps the duffel bag inside before launching himself up and through the window. “What’s going on, J, what—Oh, _Christ_.”

Jeremy bursts out laughing and doubles over. _Of all the windows_ for them to have broken into, they broke into the bathroom.

And it was occupied.

Ryan takes in the dead and pants-less thug slumped over the toilet and bursts out laughing, because _holy shit_.

“Oh my god,” Jeremy repeats, “I can’t believe we broke into the _bathroom_.” He wipes tears from his eyes. “Seriously, what the fuck is our luck?”

“They’re literally shitting themselves over the Fakes,” Ryan gasps out, setting off a fresh wave of laughter. They both desperately try to stifle the noise, snickering and guffawing with their hands clasped over their mouths.

The comms crackle to life. “Status, Vagabond, Rimmy Tim?”

They both take several calming breaths. “Green,” Ryan says after a moment, “just got in. I don’t think we’ve been noticed yet.” Except by the guy they burst in on taking a shit, Ryan adds mentally.

“We’re in a good shouting match up here,” Geoff says, “keeping the Bones occupied. Michael set up some explosives, so let us know if you need a distraction.”

“Copy.” Ryan grins. “If you hear shooting or explosions from inside, just go in.”

“Got it,” Geoff says, and Ryan can hear the answering grin in his voice. They’re both excited for this, for the action.

Ryan shoulders the duffel bag once more and jerks his head towards the door. “Ready?” He asks.

Jeremy brandishes his pistol and nods. “Let’s do this.”

They leave the bathroom together, back to back, guns up and aimed down opposite hallways in one smooth motion. And they’ve always worked well together, like a well-oiled machine, even if stealth isn’t their favorite or their strong suit. They advance through the back rooms slowly, taking care to check each door and hallway for signs of life. Jeremy picks off three guards with his silenced pistol before they reach an office with the light on. Raised voices filter out from inside, and while Ryan can’t make out the words, he recognizes the frantic tones. The Bones know something’s up.

“You open the door and I’ll take out as many as I can?” Jeremy whispers.

Ryan considers, shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “You open the door. I have an idea.” Jeremy gives him an odd look, and Ryan feels a _teeny_ bit bad, because he’s about to go full Vagabond on whatever poor idiots are behind that door and Jeremy’s never seen the Vagabond in action before. There’s no time for guilt or assurances, however, because Jeremy swings the door open and light spills out into the hallway.

Ryan steps into the center of the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame, face tilted forward enough to paint shadows around his eyes. Let it never be said that he doesn’t how to make an impression.

Dramatic theater fuck is _right_.

“Hello boys,” he drawls. The three men in the room whip around and proceed to shit bricks, making Ryan’s grin widen into something sharp and vicious. “I believe you’re in my office?” And it’s not really _his_ office, it’s one of _Trevor’s_, but the Bones don’t know that. The thugs’ eyes widen. One turns pale, another actually gulps. The third lifts his gun and is dead before he can fully aim, Ryan’s rifle cracking loudly. “What a mess,” Ryan says mournfully, eyeing the blood splattered all over Trevor’s desk and the wall behind it, “hope I have copies of those papers.”

One of the thugs screams, and Ryan laughs outright at him, taking the other thug out first just to prolong his terror.

“The _fuck_?” Jeremy mutters behind him when all three thugs lie dead on the floor.

Ryan turns around and grins. “Sorry,” he says, utterly unapologetic.

Jeremy peers around him at the blood splattered all over Trevor’s desk. “You should be apologizing to _Trevor_, not me.” He squints up at Ryan, finally. “You are a creepy motherfucker, Ryan, you know that?”

Ryan laughs aloud. “Nah, this is all the Vagabond,” he says with a wink. Jeremy opens his mouth to retort but faint yelling from down the hall stops them from bantering further. They both snap to attention, guns up and ready. The yelling continues; Geoff _did_ say they were in a shouting match in the front, but they should move just in case they’ve drawn the Bones’ attention.

He and Jeremy creep through the hallway until they reach a large set of doors that open up into the main space of the warehouse. They crouch on either side of the doorway and peek out. Ryan counts a sizeable force of the Bones, probably most of the gang, all set up facing the front of the warehouse. Stacks and crates of ammunition, armor, and guns lay scattered around the floor, as though the Fakes had shown up partway through the Bones trying to steal everything inside. The bulk of the Bones hide behind the crates, using them as makeshift cover.

Which is _perfect_, because their backs are exposed to Ryan and Jeremy.

Jeremy lifts his silenced pistol with a raised brow. “We could pick a bunch of them off from here without getting noticed,” he whispers. “Radio Geoff for that distraction, let Michael blow the wall, and then take out anyone who tries to retreat.” And it’s actually not a bad plan. It might have worked, too, if there hadn’t been a sentry by the door.

“Who’s back there?” Someone says from _right on the other side of the door_. Ryan jerks, startled, and shuffles backwards around the corner to get out of sight. Panic flares briefly in Ryan’s belly when he realizes that Jeremy stayed by the door, but he smothers it with a reminder that the Bones know Jeremy. They shouldn’t just shoot him on sight. The sentry scared the _shit _out of him, though, and he wills his frantic heart to calm.

“Me,” Jeremy says, and Ryan hears him stand up. “What the fuck’s going on out there? I leave to take a shit and come back to the boss yelling at the door?”

Booted feet step into the hallway. “The Fakes got wind of our plans somehow, showed up in force.”

“Aw, man,” Jeremy says dryly, “that sucks. Wonder how your plans got out.” And okay, apparently Jeremy’s not going to draw this out. Ryan hastily unzips the duffel bag and removes the object inside, checking it over once to make sure it’s ready.

The sentry takes a minute to understand the insincerity of Jeremy’s tone. “You _fuck_!” He hisses, “you sold us out!” A beat. Then the sentry yells, “Boss!” and the suppressed pistol goes off, a dull thud sounding in the hallway as the body hits the ground.

Ryan peeks his head around the corner to see the entirety of the Bones’ force staring at the doorway, at him and Jeremy. “Battle Buddies style?” Jeremy says quietly, just loud enough for Ryan to hear.

And yeah, fuck it. Battle Buddies style it is. Ryan stands, minigun in hand, and makes his way to the doorway. “Hi, guys!” Ryan greets cheerily, and then he walks in and holds the trigger down. He spins in a semicircle, spitting bullets in a wide arc in front of him, Jeremy firing his pistol from behind him. The Bones scatter like leaves in the wind, screaming and fumbling in their haste to find new cover. They’re intelligent enough to not turn their backs to the door, instead rushing to the far side of the room from Ryan and Jeremy.

They’re not intelligent enough to have known that Michael set his charges on that side of the room, however, and they settle into cover just in time for the wall behind them to explode. Michael and Gavin appear in the hole as the smoke clears, chucking sticky bombs and grenades into the fray. Geoff and Jack crash through the front door, guns up and firing.

It’s over pathetically quickly. For all their numbers and careful strategies, the Bones hadn’t been prepared for all six Fakes at once. A good handful of Bones flee through one of the side exits, but Ryan knows the Fakes won’t give chase. They’ve killed enough tonight.

“Christ,” Geoff says when the battle dies down, surveying the destruction. A couple of fires crackle along the wall where Michael set the charges, bodies litter the ground, and most of the Fakes’ supplies are scattered haphazardly around the floor. “The B-team can handle this, but they’ll be working on it for a while,” Geoff sighs. “We might have to clean up the Bones ourselves if we want it done quickly.”

“Looks like we got the leader,” Jack says, standing over the body of a man in a suit.

Geoff nods. “Good work, guys. That was over real quick.” He turns to Ryan and Jeremy and grins at them. “Looks like you survived your first job with the big leagues, Rimmy Tim. Good job! I’ll have to call you in more often.” Jeremy pumps both fists in the air and whoops, and Ryan can tell he’s grinning under his mask.

Ryan laughs, delighted, and sets his minigun down. “Battle Buddies are back in business,” he cheers, and he high-fives Jeremy, grinning at the flabbergasted looks the crew send his way.

“Yeah, what the fuck?” Michael says eloquently.

“What?” Ryan asks, just to be a little shit. Michael gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look and crosses his arms, apparently unwilling to humor Ryan’s bullshit._ Someone_ will take the bait, though; all Ryan has to do is wait.

Jack bites first. After a few beats of silence, she asks, “Battle Buddies?”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, as if she had asked an inane question, “Battle Buddies.” Jack makes this little _carry on_ motion. “Y’know, me and Jeremy?” He says at the same time Jeremy says, “Associates of assault!”

Geoff looks like a kid on Christmas, watching the clusterfuck before him. And maybe it’s not as good as scaring the shit out of Jeremy, but confusing the hell out of the crew is almost as good. Jack, Michael, and Gavin glance between Ryan and Jeremy a few times before Gavin cocks his head to the side. “How do you know Rimmy Tim’s real name?” He asks, the words dripping with suspicion.

Ryan grins widely, grateful that his mask covers it. “He told me!”

“When?” Jack asks, clearly flabbergasted, because Ryan and Rimmy Tim haven’t interacted together around the crew yet. For all they know, this is the second time they’ve ever seen each other, and the first time they’ve been in the field together.

Ryan turns to Jeremy and hums thoughtfully. “I don’t even remember, do you?”

Jeremy plays along, strokes his mask as if it were his beard. “Man, it had to have been back in Austin.”

“Austin?” Gavin echoes.

“Yeah,” Ryan nods, ignoring Gavin, “that sounds about right!”

“_Austin?_” Jack demands, “Vagabond, when the fuck were you in _Austin_?”

Ryan savors the moment, gives it just a tiny dramatic pause. “It had to have been five years ago by now,” he says. He pauses again, taking in the wide-eyed, slack-jawed looks on his crewmember’s faces (and Geoff’s childish glee) before hefting his minigun and turning to Jeremy. “So, we were in the middle of playing Far Cry,” he grins, “want to grab some Up ‘N Atom and pick up where we left off?” Trevor should have brought his car by now, so they can escape the shitfest they’ve created.

Jeremy tucks his gun away and dusts his hands off. “That sounds great.” And then the beautiful bastard turns to the crew and waves enthusiastically. “We left the Roosevelt a couple blocks over. See you guys later!”

And Ryan’s _definitely _going to hell for being such an asshole, but he laughs the whole way out to his car, the sound ringing in the quiet night. 


	2. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy and Ryan run into a few old friends while cleaning up the Bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the angst train!
> 
> Warnings for torture, blood, and graphic violence.

The Bones prove to be a little more resilient than Ryan hoped. They’d cut down the bulk of the gang that night in the warehouse, sure, but the Bones’ allies and a few stragglers still retain territory and supplies in the city. It takes the better part of a month to clean them all up, to Ryan’s dismay. He’d hoped to take them out in one fell swoop. It hasn’t been _all_ awful, though; Ryan ends up paired with Jeremy more often than not, because Geoff and Trevor have realized their ability for maximum chaos and destruction when together. And while it’s not Ryan’s usual quiet method of taking people out, the change of pace suits him just fine. It’s _fun_ working with Jeremy, a sentiment echoed by the rest of the crew.

Like soda and mentos, indeed.

Today is another job, another pass at the Bones. Ryan drives his Shotaro out to the desert at dawn, Jeremy having been there for most of the night already. The plan is for Jeremy to watch the deal from afar, let Ryan know when each side shows up, and then Ryan will go in and take them out while Jeremy covers him with his sniper. It’s a setup Ryan’s used plenty of times before, and he’s been on both sniping duty and guns-blazing duty enough that he’s comfortable with the plan.

And because the job involved Ryan waiting for Jeremy’s signal all night by a fast food joint, he’s essentially in plainclothes. No facepaint, no mask, no black-and-blue leather jacket. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a standard heavy-armor vest over it, and plain jeans. The job’ll be a quick in and out, nothing tracked directly to the Fakes. On the off chance it _is_ traced back to the Fakes, the B-team has become prominent enough that nobody will connect Ryan to the Vagabond.

Ryan shows up to the location Jeremy rattled off ten minutes before, the old scrapyard near Sandy Shores. He parks his Shotaro outside the gate, pulls his rifle out, and sneaks carefully towards the entrance to the scrapyard. “In position,” he whispers.

“Everything looks standard,” Jeremy says over the comms. “The Bones have three guys, their dealer brought three as well. The deal appears to be ammunition.”

Ryan nods. “They finishing up?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, “go ahead and move. I’ll cover you as soon as you go in. They’re all on the far side of the scrapped plane from you.”

Ryan ducks into the yard and darts to the back of the plane, hoping to get behind one side without being noticed. He slides along the back of the plane, ducking around the tail and hiding behind a pallet of scraps. A quick glance around the pallet confirms that he’s behind the Bones.

Perfect.

“Going in,” Ryan says, and then he’s up and shooting the Bones in the back. All three go down quickly, their guns put away to carry the ammunition from the deal. Their dealer proves to be better prepared, shooting a spray of bullets in Ryan’s direction. He dives for cover across the way and hides behind the shell of a rusty old car.

“Got one,” Jeremy says, the crack of his rifle echoing across the yard.

Ryan jumps out of cover before the dealer can go after Jeremy, nailing one in the head. “I don’t have eyes on the last one,” he says, glancing around.

Jeremy grunts. “Neither do I. I’ll let you know if I see movement.”

Ryan makes his way slowly across the yard to where the dealer was, gravel crunching loudly under his boots. He’s eternally grateful he wore heavy armor today, because he’s practically telegraphing his position and there’s a very high likelihood that he’s about to get shot. He makes it to the front of the plane and darts around it, gun up, and scans the area.

Nothing.

Ryan frowns. He would have heard it if the guy ran away, he’s sure of it; the gravel in the yard would have prevented anyone from making a quiet escape. He whirls around and scans behind him, but still—nothing. He’s alone in the scrapyard.

“Do you have visual?” He asks quietly, because the dealer already knows that there’s a sniper watching his back, he won’t give Jeremy away by talking to him over the comms.

Jeremy doesn’t answer.

An icy chill runs down Ryan's spine. “_Do you have visual?_” He repeats, louder this time, in case Jeremy hadn’t heard him, but the comms are terrifyingly silent. Ryan swallows thickly. He needs to get to Jeremy’s spot _now_, but there’s got to be someone still in the scrapyard. He does a quick sweep of the yard, checks behind all the obvious places to hide, but finds no one. Fingers tightening on his rifle, Ryan gives up on the search and heads out to his Shotaro instead. They technically weren’t after the dealer, he rationalizes. Jeremy is in trouble, he needs to _find him_, it’s not a big deal if the dealer gets away. He takes a deep, steadying breath when he reaches the gate to the scrapyard, starts to run towards his bike—

—something cracks against his head, white-hot agony flaring through his skull, and the world goes black.

* * *

Ryan wakes up with his wrists tied to a chair. It’s good rope, too, strong and sturdy, and it probably won’t give way before he rubs his wrists to the bone unless he can wear it down on the spines of the chair. The room he’s in is bright white and clinical, almost like a hospital, but Ryan knows better. He’s been on both sides of this position to know a room built for torture when he sees one. He takes stock of the room around him. He’s alone, though he knows that will change soon enough, and he can’t see under the door enough to tell if there’s a guard posted outside. His chair is in the center of the room, fluorescent lights above him, the door on the wall in front of him, and no windows on any of the walls. A tray rests on a stand by the door, and while it’s covered, Ryan knows it probably contains knives and scalpels and other unpleasant objects.

Fucking great.

Maybe ten or so minutes pass before the door opens and a tall, thin man enters the room.

“Ryan,” the man greets smoothly, and Ryan freezes because what the _fuck_, how does the guy know his real name? Then the voice registers and Ryan’s stomach drops to the floor. “It’s good to see you again,” the man continues, unaware of the full-blown panic that grips Ryan in that moment. He _knows_ the man in front of him, knows him from a time long ago, a place he thought he’d escaped from. His name is Cooper, and they’d been friends, once. He and Jeremy and Ryan used to spend time after missions together, laughing and playing games late into the night. 

Ryan’s been captured by the _Agency_. 

“It’s been a long time,” Cooper says, undeterred by Ryan’s silence. “We lost your trail, disappointingly, had to focus our efforts on chasing Dooley instead.” Cooper grins widely. “And in a surprising twist of events, he led us _right to you_!”

Ryan swallows thickly. The Agency has him and Jeremy captured. The Fakes might not even register their disappearance for another few hours, and the Agency isn’t like the crews in Los Santos. They’re careful, thorough, and most of all, they’re _patient_. The Agency has the power to outmaneuver the Fakes on every front. The only way Ryan’s ever gotten the better of the Agency before was when he and Jeremy caught them by surprise. He doesn’t have that advantage now.

“So,” Cooper says, clasping his hands behind his back, “we don’t want to make this any more difficult than we have to.” He leans forward, his smile vicious, “We can’t have a leak like you off in the world. I’m sure you’ve had a good time living in this slum of a city, but it’s time to come home to the Agency.” Cooper straightens. “We’ve learned our lesson. You and Jeremy can’t be trusted together. You two just don’t have the _delicate_ touch we need for our missions. It seems a waste, though, to simply get rid of you.” He gestures to the tray by the door. “So; I’m here to acquaint you with the consequences if you fail to complete your missions quietly from now on.”

The statement throws Ryan for a loop so badly that he nearly gapes at the man. Holy _shit_, the Agency has no idea what they’re up against. They have _no idea_ how to scare him anymore, no idea how he operates as the Vagabond. Ryan never really tortured people for information in the Agency—he beat up a few poor idiots in hopes that they’d spew information, but he’d never done anything worse than break a nose or a jaw. He’d never _been_ tortured back then, either, but his time in Los Santos changed that. Cooper—_the Agency_—thinks he’ll break under a little pain.

Here’s the thing: the Vagabond is an assassin. Ryan is _damn_ good at stealth when he needs to be. He and Jeremy started off with assassination missions at the Agency and were actually okay at it, even if their skills could have used work and practice. But they got _bored_. They wanted to make missions more interesting, so they started making bets and challenges along the way. _Steal this unwieldy object. Shoot that guy in the balls. Bet I can kill more than you. See if you can parachute in and kill them by landing on them._ Stupid things that usually gave them away, made the Agency frustrated and angry. They got their missions _done_, sure, just with style. With flair.

So the Agency demanding that he learn how to be stealthy? That he work for them properly or be tortured into submission?

It’s terrible. It’s _laughable_. It probably would have worked on the Ryan from six years ago. That Ryan was softer, easily scared by things like pain and torture. But the _Vagabond_? Ryan’s been on both ends of torture to not be phased by this. And then it hits him: _he’s not wearing his Vagabond getup_. It’s unlike the Agency to not do their research, to go into something like this blind, but Cooper said they only found him because he was with Jeremy.

The deal with the Bones had to have been a setup. The Agency probably lined up dozens of fake deals in hopes that Jeremy, with his newfound position as a main crewmember, would be out in the field. But then in addition to Jeremy, _Ryan_ showed up in plainclothes. It must have seemed a blessing to them, to get two birds with one stone.

And _holy shit_, the Agency has no idea what they’ve gotten themselves into. They have _no idea_ that the man they have tied to a chair is the most infamous killer in Los Santos. They don’t know that they’re approaching him all wrong. The Agency has no idea what the hell they’re doing and it fucking _floors_ Ryan. He has the advantage of surprise after all.

Ryan eyes Cooper, who is clearly off-put by his lack of an answer. And he’s tempted to whimper, to play the scared and desperate ex-Agent just for a little while, but he needs to get _out_ of here before they move him. The Agency has to be set up in Los Santos somewhere, at least on the island if not in the city; he doesn’t feel the telltale lingering effects of anesthetic, so he couldn’t have been out long. They couldn’t have moved him far.

Ryan slowly stretches his lips into a grin, too-wide and full of teeth to be sane, too relaxed for a man about to be tortured. “Cooper,” he greets, “it _has_ been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Cooper blinks owlishly at him. “You seem glad to see me,” he says, bewildered, “will you cooperate?”

Ryan snorts a laugh. “No,” he says simply, and he spits at Cooper, the glob landing on the man’s shoulder.

Cooper’s lip curls in disgust and he moves out of spitting range, towards the tray by the door. He unveils it to reveal lots of sharp pointy things, picking up a serrated knife that Ryan almost rolls his eyes at. “I was hoping to avoid doing this the hard way,” Cooper says, and Ryan knows this is his last chance to cooperate, that Cooper’s giving him an out. If he surrenders now, he’ll walk away with minimal torture.

Fat fucking chance.

Ryan laughs again, sounding every bit like the mad psychopath the denizens of Los Santos paint him to be. “The serrated ones are never worth the trouble,” he drawls, still grinning, “they get caught in skin so _easily_, rip it all apart. The smooth ones are better if you want to keep them alive.”

Cooper gives him a horrified, disgusted look. He purses his lips before replying, “Who says I want to keep you alive?”

Ryan snorts in disbelief. “_You _did, just a minute ago! You said it would be a waste to get rid of me.” And Cooper blinks at him, somehow shocked that Ryan would be lucid enough to remember his words from just a few moments ago. Ryan tuts at him. “My, _my_, Cooper, you’re not very good at this, are you?”

Cooper finally moves forward and slices at Ryan, a long line along his arm that stings like a _bitch_. “Are you sure about that?” He asks with a smug smile. He drags the knife down Ryan’s chest, blood welling up behind it. And he’s really not good at this, at torture; if he was, he’d be indifferent to anything Ryan said. Physically, Cooper has the upper hand, here. Ryan’s not much use tied to the chair as he is, and Cooper has lots of pointy instruments to make Ryan behave. Ryan can win the verbal battle, though, fuck with Cooper’s head enough to turn the tide. He just has to hold out against the pain a little longer.

Ryan settles back in the chair lazily, knees spread, head tilted back. “Mmhmm,” he hums, “you honestly think a scratch is gonna break me?” And okay, _maybe_ it’s the wrong thing to say, because Cooper snarls and stabs him with the knife, right in his shoulder. Ryan chokes out a gasp, curling in on himself, then hisses in pain. “No, no,” he gasps out, “you’re doing it all wrong, Cooper, you’re supposed to save the stab wounds for the _end_! If you do it too early, they bleed too much, too soon.”

Cooper snarls and grabs him by the ponytail, pulling hard as he pulls Ryan back to look him in the eyes. He punches him hard across the face. Ryan rolls with it as best he can, eyes watering as the blow rips hair from his scalp. “Fuck you,” Cooper hisses at him, “be quiet or I’ll _make you_.”

Ryan grins again, stares right back at Cooper with all the hate he can muster. “Go ahead and _try_.”

Cooper pulls something small off of his belt, and Ryan realizes too late that it’s a taser. It’s thankfully not the actual _gun_ that the cops use, but it’s not a cheap one either, and it hurts like hell when Cooper presses it to his chest and _holds_ it there. Ryan jolts, seizes uncontrollably, a ragged cry escaping his lips. “That’s just making me louder, not quieter,” Ryan gasps out when Cooper pulls away. All it gets him is another long press of the taser, and then another and another. Ryan screams his voice raw, his muscles turning to jelly under the electricity. There’s no way to tell how long it lasts, but the waves of electricity seem to last forever.

At long last, Cooper tucks the taser back onto his belt. He readjusts his grip on Ryan’s hair, pulling painfully. “You are going to _break_,” Cooper growls at him, “or you’re going to _die_. The Agency would prefer you alive, of course, but I have orders to kill you if you prove to be more trouble than you’re worth.”

Ryan grins up at him, completely at ease despite the weakness in his muscles and the knife in his shoulder. He’s won. “The only thing broken here is _you_,” he whispers hoarsely. Then he pauses, considers. “Well,” he amends, “that’s not the only thing. These ropes are broken, too,” and he knees Cooper as hard as he can in the crotch. Cooper goes down with a howl, and Ryan slips free of the ropes he’s been rubbing against the bars of the chair since he woke up. He yanks Cooper up by his short hair. “You misjudged,” he snarls. “You think you can break me? Get me to cave with a little pain? You’re _wrong._” Ryan pulls the knife free from his own shoulder with a ragged groan and slices Cooper’s throat with it, the serrated edge catching and ripping the skin apart messily. It’s a painful way to go, Ryan knows, and the fucker _deserved _it for what he put Ryan through, for the painful death he was planning out for Ryan.

And while it’s tempting, Ryan knows he can’t take a moment to breathe. His shoulder bleeds steadily, so he rips apart Cooper’s shirt and wads it up, pressing it as tightly as he can against the wound. He heaves himself up off the ground, stashes a few sharp knives in his boots, carefully tucks another into his waistband, and leaves the room. There’s no guard outside, which means the Agency really _has_ underestimated him. Ryan heads to the left, figuring he’ll run into something sooner or later and hoping he can find a window or a stairway before his escape is noticed.

Ryan weighs his options as he moves down the hallway. He can try and look for Jeremy, but he’s injured and weakened, and Jeremy might not even be in the same building as him. If he leaves and Jeremy _is_ here, there’s a high chance they’ll move Jeremy somewhere more difficult to find. And it’s a bitch, making this decision, but he can’t face down whatever force the Agency has here by himself, injured as he is. His best chance is to escape now and come after Jeremy later with backup, hoping against hope that whoever they sent to intimidate Jeremy is kinder than Cooper.

He finds no windows, unfortunately, but he _does_ find a stairwell that leads both up and down at the end of the hallway. Ryan heads down, crossing his fingers that the compound is above ground and not below. He gets halfway down the second flight of stairs when an alarm blares loudly and a door below him opens, booted feet running up towards him.

Ryan darts for the nearest door and bursts through it, then sprints down the hallway. His heart beats hard, blood spilling faster from his shoulder, and Ryan presses a hand tighter over the wound. Footsteps and yelling sound behind him. He darts around the next corner and he knows he’s just going to get himself lost, but to be fair he never knew where he was to _begin_ with. Right now his priority is to put as much distance as he can between himself and his pursuers.

He finds another stairwell at the end of that hallway and goes down a flight of stairs to try that floor instead. It looks like there’s two stairwells on opposite corners of the building; he can work his way up or down using them both, zig-zagging through each floor while making his way to the opposite end. He passes a hallway and sees bright light to his right, so he glances that direction the next hallway he passes and yep, sure enough, the far wall is lined with windows. He can see trees out the windows, too so he can’t be _too_ high up. Ryan sprints towards them, intending to bust out the window and accept the consequences of however high up he is.

Instead, he slams into something _hard_, something that lets out an audible _oomf_. They go down in a tangle of limbs, Ryan knocking his head on the floor hard enough to make him see stars. And he apparently needs to be more careful with his head because that’s the second time in a few hours that he’s hit it, and it really doesn’t feel great.

When Ryan’s vision clears, he gets an eyeful of bright purple and yellow.

“As glad as I am to see you,” he mumbles, “I still hate your stupid outfit.”

Jeremy groans from underneath him. “As much as I appreciate your muscle, you’re fucking _heavy_,” he grumbles in return. Ryan wheezes out a laugh and untangles himself from Jeremy, offers him a hand up. Jeremy eyes him up and down. “And covered in blood, _holy shit_, are you okay?”

Ryan gives Jeremy a once-over, relieved to see that the only blood on Jeremy is some dried blood matted in his hair and some that looks like it’s from a broken nose. “I’m fine,” Ryan lies, “let’s get out of here before they notice us.”

“Uh,” Jeremy grins sheepishly, “I think they noticed me already,” he admits.

With his head having been hit twice now, it takes Ryan a minute to put the pieces together. “You set off the alarm,” he says at last.

Jeremy shrugs. “Whoops,” he offers, but he doesn’t sound terribly apologetic.

Typical. “Well, karma’s a bitch, because we’re going to have to jump,” he points at the windows behind Jeremy.

Jeremy turns and lets out a little noise of distress. “That’s…we’re on the second story.”

“We sure are,” Ryan agrees, looking down out the window. “But we’re in luck. They left my Shotaro in the lot. They really underestimated us.”

“But, do we have to?” Jeremy whines, clearly upset about the height.

Ryan puts a comforting hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine,” he says, making sure to keep his voice light, “don’t worry about it. Land on your feet, tuck into a roll, and you’ll be fine.” And with that, he gets a running start and leaps through the window elbow-first, glass shattering on impact. He hears Jeremy curse behind him, but doesn’t have the time to look back before he hits the ground and rolls, the movement painfully jarring his shoulder.

It’s not far to his bike, and by some miracle he doesn’t get shot on his way over to it. He grabs the spare key he keeps underneath the seat, starts the engine, and as soon as Jeremy settles behind him, they’re off. Ryan floors it directly into a fence. It might look unintentional, but the Shotaro takes out the fence easily, and Ryan only gets smacked in the face a little. Bullets _ping_ on the ground around them for only a moment before they’re out of range.

And with that, they’re free.

The speedometer doesn’t dip below eighty the entire way back to Los Santos and sticks to fifty when they get to surface streets. Ryan brings them directly to the penthouse. It’s just after noon; they’ve only been missing for six or seven hours. The penthouse is still and calm, meaning the Fakes haven’t noticed their disappearance, just as Ryan predicted. A glance in the heist room reveals Geoff is in there alone, tapping away at his laptop at the far end of the table.

“Fifty bucks says Geoff won’t notice shit,” Ryan whispers.

Jeremy gives him a dirty look. “Of _course_ he won’t notice shit,” he hisses back, “I’m not taking that bet.”

Ryan snickers, then schools his face and walks in. He plops down in the nearest chair, Jeremy hovering behind him.

“The Bones sent three guys,” Ryan says, “we got them all. The deal was for ammunition, and the dealer was a group new to Los Santos called the Agency. We got two of them, the third escaped.” Geoff hums and taps away at his laptop, writing down everything, so Ryan continues, “They have a base up north by Grapeseed, set back into the hills a bit. Old compound that used to be abandoned. It’s now partially redone, but not fully staffed. Looks like they’re setting up a base in Los Santos, like they plan to be around for good.” Geoff frowns, but doesn’t react otherwise.

Ryan trades an amused glance with Jeremy. Geoff hasn’t so much as looked up, hasn’t noticed the haggard and bloody state they’re in.

“…And Jeremy and I can’t go outside the penthouse for a while, or we might get captured again,” Ryan says dryly, and _there it is_, Geoff finally looks up at them.

“_Again?!_” Geoff demands, and then he seems to take in the state of the two of them; his eyes widen, his jaw drops.

Ryan hums in confirmation. “I’m gonna go get cleaned up,” he says, “I need stitches and it shouldn’t wait much longer.” He waves tiredly in Geoff’s direction and flees the heist room, heading to his own room to clean up.

* * *

Jack knocks on his door the next morning, offers Ryan a mug of coffee and a plate of kolaches. Ryan hums his thanks and waves her in, sitting down tiredly against his headboard. Jack follows him, closes the door with a quiet _click_ and sits beside him on the bed.

“How are you feeling?” Jack asks quietly.

Ryan hums, takes a sip of coffee. “Honestly? I feel like shit, and not just physically.”

Jack puts a gentle hand on his shin and squeezes. “Jeremy told us everything that happened on his end. You came out significantly worse for wear than he did, and he’s pretty shaken by the ordeal.” She pauses, purses her lips. “Did they give you the same offer they gave him?”

“Told me to work for them, do their missions quietly, or they’d torture some sense into me,” Ryan says tiredly. “They—Jack, they were so _bad_ at it. At first I was shitting my pants because—it’s the _Agency_, I’ve been running from them for years.” Jack hums, squeezes his shin again. And Jack doesn’t know the story, here, only Geoff and Jeremy do. Ryan resolves to tell the crew when the trauma is a little less fresh. “But they went about it all wrong,” he continues. “I _know_ stealth, Jack.”

“You sure do,” Jack agrees. “Do you think they underestimated you?”

Ryan nods. “Completely. They were prepared to scare a version of me that hasn’t existed for _years_, a version of me that was softer and afraid of pain.” Ryan’s lip curls up. “I’m not that person anymore.”

Jack takes the mug of coffee from him, sets it down on the nightstand. “It doesn’t make you _soft_ to be afraid of pain,” Jack says, leaning in to look him in the eye. “It doesn’t make you weak.” Ryan tries to protest, but Jack shakes her head and talks over him. “_Ryan_. You are the strongest person I know, but you don’t have to be strong all the time. You don’t have to tell me what happened back there, but you don’t need to brush it off, either. I have your back,” she promises, “out there in the field as well as here.”

Jack opens her arms and Ryan goes willingly, rests his head on her shoulder, buries his face in her neck. He wraps his arms around her back and pulls her in so he can lean back against the headboard. Jack shifts to accommodate him and wraps him up in a hug, one hand in his hair.

“I’ve got your back,” Jack promises again, “always.”

Ryan takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. “I used to know the guy they sent in to talk to me,” he mumbles into her shoulder. “Cooper. He was an informant, at first, but then the Agency got him to work for them. We used to sit next to him in the mess all the time. His room was across the hall from ours.”

Jack strokes a hand through his hair. Ryan will never admit it aloud, but even as raw as his scalp is, the motion is soothing enough to make him melt into the embrace.

“He tazed me and cut me up a bit,” Ryan says quietly, “I fucked with his head more than he fucked with mine. It’s just…” Ryan sucks in another shuddering breath, “I thought I’d escaped the Agency. I really thought I’d escaped, and I guess I had. Cooper said they only found me because of Jeremy.”

It really settles in; the fact that he’d been safe in Los Santos until Jeremy unwittingly brought the Agency here with him. The Agency had given up on him when they’d lost his trail. Now that they know where he is, they’ll stop at nothing to reach him. Panic claws at Ryan’s throat, making it hard to breathe. “Jack, I can’t leave the penthouse,” he chokes out, “I can’t let them get to me again.” He can’t leave, he can’t show his face even as the Vagabond, because they will make a grab for him the first chance they get.

Jack shushes him. “You can stay here if you feel safer,” she assures him, “we’ll have someone around at all times, check in with you regularly to make sure you’re still here.” She huffs. “Matt and Gavin have been working on the security, making sure everything’s in order. Those two have reached mad scientist level with some of the shit they’re working on. The Agency won’t be able to take you out from underneath us,” she promises. “And Ryan, we’ll handle the plans to take them out. You don’t need to worry about it.” Jack smooths his hair out of his face. “Just lay low for a while, rest and recover from yesterday. We’ll keep you updated, but you can let us handle this.”

The panic fizzles and then fades entirely, soothed by her words, and Ryan curls into her embrace. For some reason, the relief—that he’s safe, that his crew will take care of things, _is already_ taking care of things—is what gets to him. A couple of tears stream down his cheeks and wet Jack’s neck. She squeezes him tightly. “We’ve got your back,” she says again, and that’s what does it. He lets go, cries, _really cries_, for the first time since he lost Jeremy all those years ago. And it doesn’t feel like weakness, exactly, leaning on his crew for support. He doesn’t feel strong, either, but that will come later, with enough time to dull yesterday’s events.

The tears slow and then stop altogether, but Jack makes no move to pull away. It’s odd, Ryan thinks, to have someone there for him after torture. He’s always been alone for the aftermath. He doesn’t quite know what to do or say, if he should talk or stay silent or cry his brains out, but Jack solves that mystery for him by shoving the plate of kolaches under his nose when he leans back out of the embrace.

As far as comfort goes? Coffee, kolaches, and someone to lean on are _divine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Updates next Friday.


	3. The Fakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery isn't always easy, but the Fakes do what they can to help. Even if their methods are a little...unconventional, at times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Sorry this is a little late in the day. I worked longer than usual this morning, and wasn't able to get the chapter out quite as early as I wanted. 
> 
> But enjoy! <3

True to Jack’s word, the planning goes on without Ryan. He visits the heist room exactly once, with Jeremy by his side, to tell the crew everything he can about the Agency. It’s horribly anxiety-inducing to talk about his deepest fears with so many people, but Jeremy sits shoulder-to-shoulder with him the entire time. And it’s his _crew_ that he’s talking to, his _family_. He’s safer divulging the information than he is keeping it from them.

“The guy who talked to you, Ryan,” Geoff muses, “was there any significance that they sent him to deal with you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Ryan nods, “I knew the guy. We were friends.”

Jeremy side-eyes him. “Who was it?”

“Cooper,” Ryan says, grimacing. Jeremy curses under his breath. “He was originally an informant, worked either on his own or separately from the Agency. Jeremy and I dealt with him pretty often, and the Agency eventually convinced him to join up. He lived across the hall from us, hung out with us whenever we were all on base at the same time.” Ryan purses his lips. “When the Agency turned on me and Jeremy, Cooper helped us escape, gave us a location to hide.”

“He fuckin’ sold us out,” Jeremy spits. “Separated me and Ryan, and then led the Agency right to us.”

Ryan shifts uncomfortably. “It was his fault that I never saw Jeremy again, until recently.”

Michael jerks in his seat. “Wait. You guys didn’t know where the other was?”

“No,” Ryan says, shaking his head. “Jeremy just showed up in Los Santos a few months ago. I ran into him during my murder break.”

Michael slides a look at Jeremy, who shrugs. “I thought Ryan died,” he says, a defensive note creeping into his voice. “They hit the building we were in with a hefty explosive. I thought for sure he was dead.”

It’s pretty similar to Ryan’s own account of the day. “Jeremy, you disappeared after the explosion,” Ryan says, “I heard you scream my name, so I kept looking for you. I nearly got killed when they caught up to me.”

Jeremy gets this sheepish look that has Ryan preparing for whatever tale of idiocy Jeremy’s about to spout. “Well everything was on fire after the explosion. I was trapped and needed to get out, and the window was my only escape,” Jeremy says, and yep, there it is, there’s the idiocy.

“Jeremy,” Ryan says slowly, because something _horrible_ just occurred to him, “our hiding spot was in the mountains. The side of the building was over a cliff.”

“Yeah, I fell off the mountain,” Jeremy admits, shooting him an embarrassed smile.

Ryan buries his face in his hands. “God_dammit_ Jeremy.”

Geoff starts laughing that whooping laugh of his, and it sends the rest of the crew into a fit of giggles. Ryan kind of hates them all for laughing at his misery, but then Jeremy starts protesting and defending himself and okay, maybe it’s alright if they laugh mostly at Jeremy. For fuck’s sake, though, trust Jeremy to escape a burning building by jumping off a goddamn cliff. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

After the laughter dies down, Jack shoos him out of the heist room, says they have enough information to begin planning. She drags Jeremy down to the garage, the two of them having bonded over muscle cars recently, and Geoff and Michael stay behind, muttering over Geoff’s hastily scrawled notes from the meeting. Something loosens in Ryan’s chest when Gavin catches his elbow, leads him over to the TV in the living room. Gavin plops down next to Ryan and offers him an Xbox controller. And Ryan is struck by the fact that Gavin trusts him enough to sit close enough to him that their shoulders and knees knock together. A year ago, Gavin would have demanded that Ray and Michael sit between the two of them if they had to be in the same room at all.

“Wanna play Halo?” Gavin asks. “Probably better than Mario kart.”

“Fuck Mario kart,” Ryan grumbles under his breath.

Gavin snickers. “Halo it is. Mind if we log in with my account? I need help with some achievements.”

Ryan hums an affirmative. They sit there for a long time, just the two of them, the others either still in the heist room or downstairs in the garage. It’s easy and peaceful and somehow _exactly_ what Ryan needed.

After a while, Gavin shifts, pressing even closer to Ryan’s side. “Getting tazed is the worst,” Gavin says quietly. “I got tazed twice on a mission with Ray. My muscles were jelly afterwards. He practically had to carry me back to the car.”

Ryan winces in sympathy. “It’s not fun,” he agrees. “Leaves less lasting damage than just about anything else, though.”

Gavin hums. “I suppose, but I think it hurts more. Are you…” he trails off, glances at Ryan out of the corner of his eye. “Will you be alright?”

“I will be,” Ryan says after a moment’s pause. “I don’t feel great mentally or physically. The whole thing really freaked me out,” he admits. “Nobody really fucks with the Vagabond, you know? I might get shot by the LSPD or by a rival gang, but no one’s really brave enough to capture or torture me anymore. I guess I’d gotten, I don’t know.” He wets his lips, looks for words. “Complacent? Soft?”

“You got used to being safe,” Gavin says. “You got used to being out of everyone’s reach. Not much gets past the Fakes these days.”

It’s true. The Fakes have built enough of a name for themselves that most of Los Santos is scared to touch them (aside from the LSPD, who are truly inspiring in their bravery in attempting to apprehend them). Matt and Gavin have security set up so tightly around their bases that no one gets in. And with big names like Mogar and the Vagabond in the crew, even the heavy hitters in the city think twice before going after the Fakes.

“Should have been prepared for this,” Ryan mutters, “should have realized that the Agency would have followed Jeremy.”

Gavin whirls around and gets in Ryan’s face. “You _stop_ that,” he says firmly. “It was an accident. A lot of things went wrong all at once. The Bones had a dealer we didn’t research. You were in plainclothes. Jeremy had no one to watch his perch. You weren’t supposed to check in until that afternoon. _All of it_ was an accident, that you got captured the way you did, and none of it was your fault.” Gavin pauses for breath, his shoulders nearly heaving with the force of his outburst. “If anything, _I _could be to blame. I should have researched the dealer, ensured you had more backup. I should have been on comms with you, or checked in every half-hour. _I should have noticed_, but I didn’t. Do you blame me?”

Ryan swallows thickly. “Never,” he promises.

Gavin grabs his shoulders and squeezes. “It was an _accident_. No one besides the Agency is at fault, so don’t blame yourself, alright?” And then Gavin pulls him into a tight hug.

It’s strange. Ryan’s never hugged anyone in his crew besides Jeremy before, and now he’s hugged two people in as many days. He’s not _complaining_, exactly; it’s comforting and probably what he needs right now. It’s just—if you told Ryan a year ago that Gavin would have hugged him, he would have laughed in your face.

“I’m so sorry you got hurt,” Gavin mumbles into Ryan’s shoulder. “I was really worried when Geoff told me what happened.”

Ryan squeezes him tighter. “I’m sorry I worried you,” he says, voice muffled by Gavin’s shirt. “I’ll be alright eventually. And I’ll feel a lot better once the Agency is taken care of.”

Gavin pulls back and gives him a hard, determined look. “We’ll give them _hell_,” he says fiercely.

Ryan smiles. “I sure hope so.”

“I mean it,” Gavin says, diving back in for another hug. “We’re gonna kick their ass.” They sit like that for a while, curled into each other, soaking up warmth and comfort. “Is there anything I can do?” Gavin asks eventually. “Something to make you feel better?”

Ryan hums. “I dunno, to be honest. The hug’s nice.” They both laugh a little. “Halo was pretty nice, too. It’s familiar and fun, takes my mind off things.”

“I think we both died,” Gavin says.

Ryan glances over his shoulder at the TV. “Oh yeah,” he says, “long time ago. Gonna have to start that one over again.”

“_Dammit_,” Gavin cries into his shoulder, “we were so far!”

It’s easy to fall back into banter. “You’re the one who stopped playing, first!” He points out.

Gavin pulls back and jabs a finger into his chest. “Only because you were being a _mong_!”

“Use English,” Ryan begs, “for once in your life, _please.”_

And once again, all Gavin proves is how easy it is to rile him up to the point of bird noises.

* * *

Michael calls Ryan out of the blue.

“Look out your window,” Michael says. There’s noise in the background, wherever he is, and Ryan can’t quite place what it is. It’s not police sirens, the whine of a jet engine, the hum of a car, or the roar of chopper blades, so he gives up on worrying about it for the moment.

Ryan sits up in his bed, tosses the blankets off his legs. “Not that I don’t appreciate social calls,” he mumbles, “but it’s two in the morning.”

Michael snorts. “Like you were sleeping anyways.” And he’s not wrong, exactly. Ryan hasn’t slept great since his capture, too paranoid and jumpy and anxious to do more than toss and turn. He swings his feet off the bed and shuffles in the dark towards the window.

“What exactly am I looking for?” Ryan asks, looking for a parachute, an aircraft, a giant dick drawing, anything that screams, ‘the Fakes are here!’

There’s a faint commotion on Michael’s end, then some muffled yelling. Michael curses and then a gunshot sounds, and it has to be Michael’s by how loud it is. “Sorry,” Michael breathes, “uh, like due south of the penthouse, should be straight ahead from your window.”

Ryan backs up from where he’s smooshed his face against the glass to look down at the street, then studies the building in front of him. There’s nobody on the roof, no graffiti’d dicks on the walls. His gaze lifts up, to the buildings behind it, and up again to—

—to the burning building across the city. Ryan whistles, impressed. The massive blaze has engulfed the several-story building in its entirety, creating a pillar of swirling flames. Thick black smoke curls lazily into the sky, the bottom of the plume colored brightly by the flames below. It hits Ryan, then, that the dull noise in the background of the call is the roar of flames.

“What’s the occasion?” Ryan asks, because _why the hell_ is a sizeable building is on fire, courtesy of his crew?

“This is the last territory held by the Bones,” Michael says, “or, well, it _was_.”

Ryan grins at the news. The war with the Bones is officially over, then. “Quite a statement you’re making,” he says, because there’s no way the inferno was necessary, or planned by Geoff.

“It’s not a statement,” Michael says quietly, something oddly serious in his voice. “It’s—well, you couldn’t be here tonight.” The words are simple, blunt, and Ryan appreciates the honesty. Michael’s right; Ryan was supposed to be there with them for the final fight with the Bones, but he’s too terrified to leave the penthouse. He can’t leave himself open to attack by the Agency, can’t let himself get captured again. They won’t underestimate him a second time.

Michael clears his throat, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Wish you were here,” he adds cheekily.

Ryan opens his mouth to respond, but a loud shriek assaults his ears and he wrenches the phone away from his ear instead. A single blue firework explodes in the distance, the _boom_ sounding through the phone. Another goes off, then another and another, three blue and one purple.

“God _dammit_ Jeremy! I told you to get _blue_, not purple!” Michael screams. Ryan laughs, puts the call on speakerphone to avoid going deaf, because the _shriiieeeek—BOOM! _of fireworks keeps going, the bright explosions lighting up the sky. Every now and again one arcs too close to the burning building and lights up the smoke brilliantly.

Ryan’s mouth runs dry. He doesn’t know what to say. His crew planned this _for him_. He was right when he thought the fire was too big to be a normal plan by Geoff; sure, fires are a common side-effect of attacks by the Fakes, but they don’t usually get so _big_. The blaze is _huge_, massive enough that it would have to be intentional. _Wish you were here, _Michael said. Michael set the fire, made it huge enough that Ryan would be able to enjoy it from clear across the city. And the fireworks—Michael specifically had everyone get blue for _him_. Jeremy, the little shit, got purple just to make Ryan laugh.

The noise on the call dies down, the last of the fireworks sprinkling, and then it’s over. Ryan hears faint shuffling on the other end, probably Michael picking his phone back up, so he clears his throat. “Nice show,” he says quietly, his throat tight with emotion, “I enjoyed it. Thank you.”

“Any time,” Michael says, just as quietly, but Ryan can tell he’s grinning. He stands at the window for a long time, watching the blaze. It doesn’t dwindle so much as it dies; the building eventually collapses, too weakened to support itself any longer. Ryan cheers along with the rest of the crew when it crumbles, loud whoops sounding through the phone and above him in the penthouse. He cracks a grin at that; the others must be watching from the living room.

After a few more minutes, Michael heaves a sigh. “Alright, show’s over,” he says. “Go and get some actual fucking sleep for once.”

Ryan huffs. It’s just after four in the morning; he’s been watching the blaze for almost two hours. “Yeah, yeah. I will.” He pauses. “Thanks again,” he says, hoping against hope that the quaver in his voice doesn’t give away just how much the gesture means to him. 

If Michael notices, he doesn’t say anything, just hums and ends the call. Ryan watches the smoke drifting lazily upwards from the burning wreckage for another few moments before heading to bed.

And if he sleeps in far later than usual, no one says anything about that, either.

* * *

The Fakes don’t tread on eggshells around Ryan, and he appreciates it immensely. If there’s anything worse than getting fucked up on a job, it’s being babied afterwards. It’s not comforting to be treated like he’s made of glass, likely to fall and shatter at the slightest nudge. They _do_ try to comfort him, though, and he appreciates that, too.

Ryan walks into the common room one night to find Lindsay made chocolate cupcakes with dark blue frosting and white sprinkles.

“I don’t know how you matched the blue of my jacket, but I’m impressed,” he says, swiping one from the tray.

Lindsay winks at him. “Magic,” she says, a satisfied little grin on her face.

And Ryan doesn’t moan at the taste, but it’s a close thing. Lindsay’s cupcakes are _divine_.

Trevor very kindly dumps a Trevor-card on his lap at one point. Ryan stares at it in confusion for a moment, protest on his tongue because _he didn’t do it, whatever it was_, but Trevor flashes him a grin. “I heard a new VR game came out the other day,” he says, “I thought you might like to try it.” Trevor slips into the heist room before Ryan can get out anything more than a thank-you, but he checks steam and yep, sure enough, there’s a new game that costs _exactly_ the same amount as the number sharpie’d on the back of the Trevor-card.

He and Jeremy take turns at the game the next day, setting up in one of the empty rooms downstairs so they have space to move around a bit. And Jeremy’s been a constant presence by his side through it all, he notices. When Ryan can’t sleep and gets up at ungodly hours of the morning, it’s Jeremy who sits next to him and tries to distract him. If he’s ever playing a video game by himself, Jeremy is the one to join him. When he gets the itch to _do something_, Jeremy drags him downstairs to the makeshift shooting range. And normally Ryan might have been frustrated by his constant shadow, but he’s endlessly thankful for his Battle Buddy’s presence.

Fiona doesn’t bully him for a few weeks, which is actually pretty touching. She even goes out of her way to bully Michael and Gavin whenever he’s in a gloomy mood, smacking them as she walks by or dumping their food on them. It’s entertaining as hell.

Then Matt invites him into his lair one evening, and Ryan’s immediately suspicious. Matt doesn’t let _anyone _into his office if he can help it. Ryan walks down the hall slowly, keeping an eye out for traps or tripwires. He leans back out of view when he opens the door, inspects the doorway for plastic wrap, but there’s nothing.

“What’s going on?” Ryan asks slowly, quietly, because Matt’s lair is _not_ a place he wants to fuck with. God knows what the hell the man has laying around. Matt waves him over to a chair.

_A chair_.

Matt only has one chair in his office to encourage people to leave him the fuck alone, which means Matt had to find and bring a chair down here for Ryan to sit in. Ryan does not sit in it; he hovers uncertainly by the doorway. There doesn’t seem to be an airhorn taped to the bottom, so he scans the room for other things that could jump out and scare the shit out of him.

Matt turns around, finally, and rolls his eyes at Ryan’s hesitance. “For fuck’s sake, man, get in here. You’re gonna miss it.”

_That_ gets Ryan moving. “Miss what?” He asks, sitting down gingerly.

Matt gestures to the screen. “Just watch,” he says.

It’s a shitty CCTV feed, black and white and grainy as hell. It appears to be in a hangar at the airport. A Titan sits in the hangar, and Ryan doesn’t need to see color to know that it’s Gavin’s gold plane; the surface is shiny and reflective. The hangar is empty, but after a couple minutes of watching the doors slide open. Gavin himself walks in and boards the plane.

“_I’m at the plane_,” Gavin’s voice comes through the speaker at Matt’s desk.

Matt reaches for a radio. “Perfect,” he says, “go ahead and take off when you’re ready.”

“_Yeah gimme a moment,”_ Gavin says, “_someone fucked with the controls_.”

Matt hums an affirmative, switches the radio off, and then snickers. “That’s odd,” he says, lips twitching, “I can’t _imagine_ who would have done that.”

Ryan’s own lips twitch. “Matt,” he says slowly, more amused than anything else, “why did you fuck with Gavin’s plane?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” Matt says, and that’s not worrying _at all_, Jesus Christ.

The reason appears on the screen a few moments later; a lanky man holding a knife enters the hangar and makes a beeline for the plane.

“Matt,” Ryan scolds, exasperated and trying not to grin, “_Matt._”

They hold their breath as the man opens the door and boards the plane. A beat passes, two, and then Gavin squawks loudly over the comms. Ryan and Matt both lose it completely, howling with laughter as Gavin is thrown from the plane. Gavin barely has time to dive out of the way as the mugger takes the controls and urges the Titan forwards, out of the hangar, and into the air.

“_He nicked my bloody plane!_” Gavin shrieks, getting to his feet and running to the mouth of the hangar to watch his gold Titan take off without him. His hands reach up to tug at his hair in frustration. “_Matt! He took my plane!”_

Matt coughs loudly a few times before reaching for the radio. “Aw, man, I’m so sorry, Gav,” he says _completely_ unrepentantly, “that really sucks.” The dry response sends Ryan into another fit of laughter, and he has to wipe the tears from his eyes before they stream down his cheeks.

“_Matt!_” Gavin cries, “_Why’d you do that? We _need_ that plane!_”

Matt winks at Ryan. “Don’t worry, Gav,” he says, grinning widely, “I’ve got something even better for you.”

And that’s not terrifying at all, no. Not in the slightest. 

* * *

Geoff knocks on the door to Ryan’s room a few weeks later when he and Jeremy are up late playing Portal 2 co-op. He zeroes in on Ryan. “Can we talk? Sorry to bug you two.”

There’s something grave and serious in Geoff’s tone, which both Jeremy and Ryan pick up on immediately. Jeremy pauses the game and stretches. “I need to go to bed anyways,” he says. “See you tomorrow, Rye.” He gently punches Ryan on the shoulder and leaves him alone with Geoff.

“Sorry,” Geoff says as he settles into the spot on the bed Jeremy vacated, “but I needed to talk with you.”

Ryan turns off the TV to give Geoff his full attention. “It’s alright. What’s wrong?”

Geoff slips off his shoes and settles more comfortably on Ryan’s bed, kicking his feet up and leaning against the headboard. “We just finalized our plans to hit the Agency,” he says. The words send a shock of ice down Ryan’s spine, and he jolts. Geoff notices the motion, watches him carefully for a moment before continuing, “You’re welcome to join us, if you feel comfortable. I’m confident in our plan enough that I’ll make that offer.” He gives Ryan a small smile. “I’d feel better with you there, but it’s entirely up to you.”

He goes quiet, gives Ryan time to think on it. And honestly, it’s a tough choice. There’s a part of Ryan that wants to run and hide and never have to come in contact with the Agency again. It’s the part of Ryan that was quietly afraid of the torture, the part that now fears getting tazed in future fights with the LSPD. It’s the same part of him that panicked when he got caught playing video games, the part that was afraid of getting kicked out of the crew for no reason whatsoever.

Ryan’s gotten good at smothering that voice.

There’s a louder part of him that trusts Geoff. If Geoff would prefer that Ryan be there, it’s probably the safest place for him to be. And beyond that, Ryan needs the closure. He needs to see the Agency fall. He needs to prove to the Agency that he’s stronger, that he’s better. He needs to _win_.

“You’d prefer I be there?” Ryan asks.

Geoff nods. “The whole crew will be there, Jeremy included. I think it’s safer for you to be on the front line with us than back here in the empty base. I know you’d be worried about being alone, too.” And Geoff’s not wrong, there. “We have a solid plan.” He grins. “They don’t know you’re the Vagabond,” he points out. “How fun would it be to tell them?”

And yeah, okay, Geoff knows Ryan. Knows how to get him hooked, how to make a plan that will actually excite Ryan where he should be terrified out of his wits. “I’m listening,” Ryan says slowly.

Geoff laughs. “All you need to do is bring yourself,” he pats Ryan on the knee. “Don’t worry about the details. There’s no master plan that we’re following, here. We’ve got some tricks up our sleeves, but we’re just gonna hit their base as hard as we can. The more direct confrontation we get, the better.”

And Geoff must really mean the whole _tricks up our sleeves_ part, because what he’s just outlined is barely a plan to be confident in. Ryan trusts Geoff, though, trusts him with his life. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be there. I trust you.”

Geoff eyes go soft and _goddammit_, Ryan’s going to get hugged again, isn’t he? “Thank you,” Geoff says earnestly, “that means the world to me. I know it isn’t always easy for you to trust the crew, but we have your back out there.”

“I know,” Ryan says, and he means it. And not just because Jack told him so a few weeks ago; he’s been coming to terms with it for the last year and a half that he’s been with the crew. It’s apparent when they heist; when his crew provides backup if he’s outnumbered, when Jack arrives in the nick of time with the getaway vehicle, when someone watches his back with a sniper rifle. It’s apparent every day between heists; when Jack cooks him food, when the lads beckon him over for video games, when Geoff helps him with planning. His crew takes care of him.

Geoff doesn’t lean in for a hug, but he does shift to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with him, and that’s just as good. “We’re going out in three days,” Geoff says. “I’ll help you get ready the morning-of, load you up with all the equipment you’ll need.

“Sounds good,” Ryan says, and it’s a little like taking a leap of faith. Ryan’s used to winging it with the Fakes, sure; most of their plans call for winging it at one stage or another. This is a little different. It feels less like tossing caution to the wind, more like a trust fall. “Wanna play Portal?”

Geoff shrugs and picks up Jeremy’s discarded controller. “Fuck it, why not?”

And if that doesn’t sum up Ryan’s opinion on Geoff’s half-revealed plan, he doesn’t know what _does_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week's chapter may be delayed by a day or two. I should have it done sometime next weekend.


	4. The Agency - Round Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fakes attack the Agency. 
> 
> Ryan's crew is a goddamn nightmare, and he loves them more than anything in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are!! Sorry it's a day late, but thank you for being patient with me. I'm working part time and at school full time, so I haven't had much time for my own writing on the side. I don't plan on leaving anytime soon, but updates to my other projects on the site will be few and far between during the semester. 
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me for the past four weeks. You're all the best <3
> 
> Edit: the wonderful jemmathepurple on tumblr drew a scene in this chapter!! Go check it out! And thank you so much <3
> 
> https://jemmathepurple.tumblr.com/post/187793898627/fanart-for-bdbriggs-fic-battle-buddies-style

The morning of the attack dawns bright and cheery, and Ryan barely slept all night. He tossed and turned for hours before getting up and going to the kitchen, only to find Jack sitting at the kitchen counter. They sat up for another two hours together, talking quietly, until Jack shoved a mug of tea under his nose.

It was sleepytime tea, because of course it was, and Ryan went out like a goddamn light, ushered into his bed by his mother-hen of a teammate. He wakes grouchy, but he’s grateful for the few hours of sleep he got thanks to the tea, so he won’t complain too much.

“Jack says she had to drug you last night,” Geoff says by way of hello, walking into Ryan’s room without knocking. Ryan spreads his arms in a _why_ motion, because he was _changing_, _thank you_, but Geoff just rolls his eyes. “Sorry, hi, I’m coming in your room. Why did Jack drug you and what did she drug you with?”

Ryan sighs heavily and steps into his jeans before answering. “I couldn’t sleep because I was nervous, and she gave me sleepytime tea.” He grabs a black T-shirt from his drawers and scowls at Geoff. “Knock, next time!”

Geoff ignores his complaint entirely. “Do you still want to go?”

Ryan pauses and turns to face him. “I do,” he says quietly. “I didn’t lose so much sleep that I’ll be a liability.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Geoff says, “do you still _want_ to go?”

“I do,” Ryan says again, “I really do. I need the closure.”

Geoff eyes him for a long moment. He must find what he’s looking for because he nods, finally, and says, “Okay,” and that settles it. “You putting facepaint on?”

“Absolutely,” Ryan nods. “I figure I’ll go facepaint but no mask. Anyone who knew me should be able to figure out who I am, especially if I start talking.”

Geoff grins. “That was my thought, too.” And it’s good to know that he and Geoff are on the same page about things like this. When all else fails, at least the two of them still love their dramatics.

Ryan tugs his T-shirt on and heads to the bathroom to work on his facepaint. Geoff follows him, to his surprise, comes in and closes the toilet lid so he can sit down. Even further to his surprise, Geoff doesn’t talk about their plans or the upcoming attack. He sits on his phone and scrolls through reddit, of all things, reading aloud the posts he finds interesting or funny. It’s _nice_, Ryan realizes. It’s calming. It settles some of the nerves buzzing beneath his skin.

“Looks good,” Geoff says when Ryan finishes and washes his hands. “I mean, it’s fucking awful and terrifying, but it looks good.”

“Thanks,” Ryan says drily, but he grins when Geoff shoves him.

They head out to the garage together, Ryan stopping to don body armor, boots, and his leather jacket. And Ryan expected Geoff to take out one of the nondescript armored cars they use for undercover missions, but Geoff tosses him the keys to his own Zentorno.

Ryan raises a brow. “Won’t my car be too obvious?”

“That’s the point,” Geoff grins widely. And that’s…not very reassuring, honestly, but Ryan rolls with it. He unlocks it and settles into the driver’s side. Geoff puts a hand on his arm before he can close the door. “You’ve got a lot of good shit in the trunk. Ammo and extra armor and guns. The minigun’s in there, too, if you want it. Your usual rifle and ammo are on the passenger seat.” He squeezes Ryan’s arm. “We’re going to meet up before we storm the base, I’ve got the rendezvous already in your GPS. I’m taking my car but I’ll be right behind you, okay?”

Ryan takes a deep, steadying breath. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. We can do this.”

“We can,” Geoff agrees. “We usually do.” He squeezes Ryan’s arm one more time before heading to his bright pink car.

Ryan takes another breath and starts the car. He can’t see the exact location on the screen on the dashboard, but the GPS takes him to the Senora highway. And what the citizens of Los Santos must think, he muses, seeing the Vagabond’s and Kingpin’s signature cars take off towards the freeway together. It’ll make the news for sure, especially given the destruction they’re likely to cause at the Agency’s base.

The Senora freeway has a big bend in it, right around the windmill farm. Ryan gets to there with no issues; no sign of the Agency, no cops, no accidental civilian deaths. He hits the bend and…well. He _hears_ his crew before he sees them.

He hears a little noise, first, muffled by the rumble of his Zentorno, but as he gets closer to the rendezvous and slows down, he hears it louder: truck horns blaring. But there’s something else there, something not _right_, so he rolls down his passenger window to hear it better. He’s immediately assaulted by a horrible cacophony of horns; musical horns, truck horns, clown horns, _the works_. There’s no one it can be besides the Fakes.

He rounds the corner and there’s a goddamn _fleet_ of cars on the hill beside the freeway. Jack’s Entity, Michael’s chrome Adder, a phantom wedge, the anti-air trailer, a tank from Jeremy’s Rimmy Armada, a standard tank, and several other sports cars. A gold Bombushka flies lazy circles overhead, and it dawns on Ryan that Matt wasn’t kidding when he told Gavin he had something “even better” lined up after the loss of his Titan. Ryan pulls off the side of the freeway practically croaking with laughter, rolling up his window to avoid being deafened by the noise. Jack directs him to park right in front of the fleet, next to Jeremy’s horrifically purple tank.

Geoff takes a spot a little behind him and to the side, and honks loudly to join in the ruckus before getting out. “What do you think?” He yells over the never-ending chorus of horns.

Ryan grins—hasn’t really stopped grinning since he rolled his window down and heard the din of car horns—and gives him a thumbs up. “Loud and proud,” he yells back, “I like it!”

Geoff grins right back. “Battle Buddies style, or so I’m told.”

Ryan throws his head back and _laughs_. He made the mistake of thinking the Fakes would take out the Agency quietly. No, the reality is _so _much better; they’re going to show the Agency that bright and loud with lots of explosions _works_, that it’s better than quiet and stealthy. They’re going to show the Agency that the Battle Buddies, the _Fakes_, own Los Santos.

Geoff walks closer to Ryan, leans into his space. “_Nobody_ fucks with my family,” Geoff says, an echo of the words Ryan hurled at him all those months ago when the Bones hurt Gavin. The words settle deep in Ryan’s chest and spread warmth through him slowly, like molasses.

Ryan grasps Geoff’s hand and shakes it firmly. “Let’s give them _hell_,” he says.

Geoff hands him an earpiece and they get back into their respective cars. Ryan takes a moment to check his rifle and load up on the ammo left for him on the passenger seat. He rests his rifle on his lap, just in case he needs to reach for it quickly.

Jack does a status check before quieting everyone down so they can listen to Geoff. “Everyone clear on their roles?”

There’s a chorus of affirmations from the crew. Ryan adds a quiet “no” at the end, because no one has told him much of anything, and is met with a round of snickering.

“We drive in this formation,” Geoff explains. “I don’t care if we take up the whole goddamn freeway. The cops should leave us alone. Even they aren’t suicidal enough to fuck with this many of us.” There’s a burst of car horns that has Ryan laughing all over again. Geoff continues on, undeterred, “When we get there, Ryan, just stick next to me. We’ll be the front line until we get shot at; then the tanks move forward. We’re going to form a line of cars, use them as cover. If the Agency wants to try and talk their way out if it, we’ll humor them for a couple minutes. Hopefully drive the point home that they fucked with the wrong crew. If things go sour, we have a few getaway vehicles stashed nearby.”

There’s clearly more to this plan if the phantom wedge, tanks, and Bombushka are anything to go by, but Ryan accepts his role with a nod. “Got it,” he says. “Ready.”

Geoff gives the all-clear, and they’re off. They dive onto the freeway, taking up all the outgoing lanes, regular traffic bailing off the side of the road or the offramps when they approach. The fleet isn’t terribly fast, as they have to keep pace with all the tanks in the group, but they’re intimidating as hell.

Ryan thinks back to twenty minutes ago, when he wondered what the denizens of Los Santos thought about seeing the Vagabond and Kingpin drive through the streets in broad daylight. Now he _really_ wonders what they think; the might of the Fakes driving in force down the freeway, honking loudly all the while. And Jack’s really killing Ryan with her goddamn musical horn, too, especially when Michael tries (and fails) to honk his horn in tune with hers. The Fakes are a goddamn _nightmare_, and Ryan loves them more than anything else in the world.

They get off the freeway at Grapeseed, drive through the town in a slightly-broken formation because the streets are too small to accommodate them all. And the Agency must not have expected them because they roll right up to the compound without being stopped. Ryan and Jeremy crash through the repaired fence they got out from last time, coming to a stop in the middle of the empty space in front of the building.

“That was too easy,” Ryan says uneasily.

The crew mumbles various agreements. “They’re not expecting us,” Trevor says brightly, “Matt, what’s it look like inside?”

“They’re scrambling,” Matt laughs, “holy shit they’re scrambling. You know how, when your mom wasn’t expecting company, she makes you run and make things presentable while she tries to distract them at the door? That’s what I’m looking at. They’re trying to find guns and ammo. Nobody was prepared.”

“Good,” Geoff says, “Let’s keep it that way. Hey, Ryan, how do you feel about knocking?”

Ryan adjusts his bullet-proof vest. “I feel like I’m glad I wore body armor,” he says drily. “Let’s do it.”

He, Geoff, and Jeremy get out, each holding their rifles loosely in one hand, and together they walk to the front doors of the compound. Geoff raps on the door with his knuckles. To Ryan’s surprise, someone _opens_ it. Anders, one of the old administrators from back in the day opens the door and blinks owlishly at them. “What…what do you want?” Anders asks.

“Hey there,” Geoff grins, “we just wanted to chat with you real quick. Is your boss here?”

A flicker of irritation crosses Anders’ face. “I _am_ the boss, here,” he says, but he glances up and to the side.

“The feed from one of the cameras went dark a minute ago,” Matt says, “I think he just looked at it. Someone’s watching.”

Anders isn’t the leader of the whole Agency, Ryan knows. He might be pretty far up the chain of command, but not _that_ far up. No, Anders is just the head of this chapter, this little base in enemy territory of Los Santos. He’s expendable. Which means whoever wrestled control of the cameras from Matt is higher up.

The boss is watching.

On one hand, it makes Ryan anxious. He’d never felt comfortable around the boss; he and Jeremy had always felt like pieces of meat being watched by hungry eyes when in his presence. On the other hand, _good_. Ryan loves an audience.

Geoff just nods like he hadn’t heard Matt. “Cool, then we can get to business. Look,” his grin morphs into something sharper, more dangerous, “you took something of mine—_two things_ of mine—and you hurt them.” Geoff leans forward like he’s telling a secret, but his voice stays the same volume, “You’re new to Los Santos, must not know how things work here. _Nobody_ fucks with my crew. The Fakes _own_ this city, you understand?”

Anders meets his gaze levelly. “Are you _threatening_ me, Ramsey?”

“Me?” Geoff leans back. “No,” he jerks his head in Ryan and Jeremy’s direction. “_They_ are.”

Anders barks out a sharp laugh. “Jeremy? You’re joking. The kid’s all bark and no bite.” Anders shifts to glance at Ryan. “But the Vagabond? You’re going to sic your guard dog on us and pretend you’re not the one threatening us?”

Geoff laughs, sharp and mean. “He wants revenge for what you did to him. I’m just providing my boys with backup, y’see.”

Anders looks surprised. _Shocked_. The Agency must never have put the pieces together. “We’ve never _touched_ the Vagabond,” he protests.

“Your guy Cooper did a number on him,” Geoff says, the corner of his lip lifting in a snarl.

“I might have gotten revenge for _Cooper_, true” Ryan drawls, fingers tightening on his gun. He grins at Anders, facepaint stretching into a macabre grin. “But why stop there? Why stop with Cooper, when I can get revenge for _everything_ you people put me and Jeremy through?”

Anders takes a full step back, eyes blown wide. And _yes_, there it is, that spark of recognition that had been absent so far. “_Ryan_?” He demands. And Ryan knows everyone around them hears the exclamation. There’s a burst of murmuring from inside the building as word travels that Ryan and Jeremy are at the door with the Fakes, that the _Battle Buddies_ are here. He has everyone’s attention now; it’s time to put on a show.

Ryan laughs. “Anders,” he croons, “it’s been such a long time. I’ve been away for so long, traveling, seeing the world.” He hums, as if in thought, casually stuffs his hands into his jacket pocket. “You know, like the Agency promised when they hired me. ‘You’ll get to see the world,’ you told me.” Ryan snorts derisively. “And then you practically caged me like a dog, only brought me out when you needed someone to do your dirty work.”

Anders swallows loudly. “That’s not how we wanted it to be,” he says, a touch of desperation leaking through.

“No, you wanted us dead,” Jeremy says bluntly. “So you turned our fellow agents against us, go them to take us down.”

“You were supposed to _stay_ down,” Anders hisses. His eyes flick to Ryan. “We thought he _was_ down, but he’s been here this whole time!”

Geoff shifts, brings the attention back to him. “You think he earned his name for nothing?” He snorts. “He wandered, running away from you for _years_. The Vagabond only settled in Los Santos recently, and he only stayed because he met the Fakes.”

Ryan is hit with the niggling itch to do something. They’re getting nowhere with this little argument, nowhere besides _frustrated_. It’s time to end this little chat.

“You know, Anders, I brought you a souvenir.” Ryan says, withdraws a grenade from his jacket pocket, pulls the pin and tosses it lazily through the doorway, behind Anders. “I’ll see you in _hell_,” he snarls, and he and Geoff and Jeremy all dive away from the door.

The world erupts into noise. The grenade goes off, someone starts shooting, and the comms burst into the yelling typical of every mission with the Fakes. Geoff and Jeremy pull Ryan to his feet and they run for the tanks, zig-zagging as bullets pepper the ground beside them. Michael, Jack, and Alfredo provide cover fire for them. Ryan dives behind one of the cars and settles behind the wheels, peeking out to shoot into the windows of the compound every now and again. Jeremy gets back into his tank and goes to town firing at the Agency vehicles parked in the lot.

And Ryan’s car is only great cover until the Agency calls in backup that comes from _behind _the Fakes, but that’s apparently what the Phantom Wedge is for. Ryan hears the roar of trucks behind him and turns, heart sinking when he sees a convoy of armored trucks barreling towards them. He only has a moment to despair before Trevor plows into the convoy with the Wedge, flipping them all over onto their sides. Michael makes quick work of the stationary targets with his rocket launcher, explosions shaking the ground, shrapnel flying every which way.

Ryan turns back to the firefight and is greeted by a sniper round whizzing right past his head.

“Sniper!” He yells over the comms. “To the west!” He dives behind another car for better cover and crouches beside Alfredo.

Alfredo leans ever-so-slightly out from behind the car, looking through the sight of his own sniper rifle. “Oh, I see him,” he mutters. The rifle cracks loudly a moment later. “Got him,” he cheers.

Ryan spares a moment to give him a fist bump before returning to the firefight. The Agency is mostly firing out the windows of their base, but there’s a solid presence on the roof and a smattering of agents around the building. Ryan prioritizes the people on the ground first, so they don’t advance and force the Fakes back and out of their cover.

The fighting is so loud and chaotic that Ryan nearly misses the telltale scream of a jet engine. At first he thinks it’s one of theirs, but he recalls that the whole crew is here, on the ground—besides _Gavin, _Ryan realizes with a jolt.

“We’ve got incoming!” Gavin yells, and sure enough, two Hydras appear over the hill. “And they’ve got _missile lock_!” The Bombushka makes a dive, spinning midair and releasing flares, but Ryan knows countermeasures can only do so much. They need to do something _fast_ to get the jets off his tail.

“Guess what, _bitches?_” Lindsay screams over the comms. And whoever the hell thought it was a good idea to stick _Lindsay_ in the anti-air trailer is a goddamn moron, because Lindsay misses the first two shots, one sailing over the mountain and the other obliterating a tree. But she hits one of the jets with her next shot, raining down shrapnel and fire all over the mountain behind the compound. “YES! _Eat_ it!” Lindsay yells. Michael screams at her to stop screaming over the comms, and those two really are made for each other because she screams back, “Eat a dick!” and it all devolves from there.

Ryan stops panicking over the jet situation just in time to hear the _whup-whup-whup_ of chopper blades. Three attack choppers come from the airstrip across the lake behind them, guns firing wildly into the Fakes’ back line.

“Lindsay, get the last jet,” Gavin says calmly, “I’m going after the choppers.” And there’s a hell of a lot of trust there, because Gavin stops trying to evade the Hydra to line up with the helicopters. The Hydra banks, unable to turn quickly, and Lindsay nails it before it can level out, everyone cheering at the loud explosion. Gavin, the beautiful son of a bitch, nails two of the choppers first try with his cluster bombs. Lindsay hits the last one as soon as Gavin is clear of the area.

Loud whooping and cheering fills the comms, Ryan letting out his own loud victory shout. Gavin makes a loud and long bird noise and does a barrel roll in the Bombushka, prompting laughter and more cheering. The Fakes have won here, Ryan knows. The Agency can’t have many more stops to pull out. He sneaks back to his car, careful to keep out of sight of the windows, and opens the trunk so he can refill his ammo. Ryan’s eyes linger on the minigun. He’s not in the most ideal position to use it at the moment, but he really _wants_ to.

Gavin provides the opportunity for him by bombing the compound. Jeremy and Fiona follow suit, blasting the building with their tanks. Whatever poor souls survive the initial blasts run out of the building, charging the Fakes.

And you know what? Fuck it, Ryan decides.

Ryan grabs the minigun and pops out of cover to mow the approaching force down. There’s not a lot that can stand up to a minigun, and Ryan grins and laughs at the destruction around him. A few agents manage to hit him, but his armor absorbs most of the damage. One shot grazes his leg painfully and Ryan almost goes down, goes to dive for cover again, but Trevor barrels through the crowd in the Wedge.

“Whoops!” Trevor exclaims, voice overly cheerful for someone with so much blood splattered across his vehicle, “I didn’t see you, there. Pardon me!”

Jeremy hops out of the tank with a rocket launcher and _why_ Jeremy needs a rocket launcher when he has a goddamn tank is beyond Ryan. He aims upwards and shoots, Ryan craning his head to see what the hell he’s shooting at, when something explodes with a high whine.

“Why do you have _fireworks_?!” Ryan yells.

Jeremy laughs, bright and bursting. “We did it!” He cheers, launching another.

Ryan peers around the now-parked Wedge and sure enough, the Agency has stopped fighting. If anyone is left alive they’ll be taken care of by the massive fire beginning to engulf the building, or they’ll turn tail and run from Los Santos. Either way, Jeremy’s right. _They won_.

It doesn’t sink in right away. Ryan watches everything around him almost dazedly, mouth dry as he processes it all. Gavin’s settled into lazy circles around the compound, the rumble of the Bombushka a steady constant in his ears. Everyone’s screaming and yelling and cheering over the comms, but the gunshots and bombs have all stopped. Jeremy’s the only one setting off explosives, shooting purple fireworks into the daytime sky.

Geoff comes up beside Ryan, surveys the destruction around them. “You good?”

Ryan swallows to get rid of the dryness in his throat. “I think I’m good,” he says. “I’m just…processing it all.”

“Don’t think too much about it yet,” Geoff suggests. “We won the fight. It’s time to celebrate. We’ll worry about the consequences together, after we celebrate.” Geoff gestures at the burning building. “And, y’know, maybe it’s time to leave before the cops show up.”

Ryan huffs a laugh. The police and fire department may have stayed away from the fighting, but they’ll show up eventually, especially with the large fire so close to the mountains. “Yeah, might not want to stick around,” Ryan agrees.

Geoff gives him a considering look. “Chiliad?”

“Chiliad.”

* * *

Two hours later sees them all at the summit of Mt. Chiliad. The large and unwieldy vehicles all rest by the tunnel at the foot of the mountain, the sports and super cars the only things available that could make it up the mountain at all. Jack, Geoff, Ryan, and Michael ferried everyone up to the peak, and Gavin somehow made it up in his stupid purple Blista after landing the Bombushka at the airstrip. Ryan doesn’t even ridicule him for his awful looking, horribly beat-up car, though, because Gavin brought food, beer, and diet eCola.

Ryan sits up on the roof of the ski lift, legs dangling over the side, and gazes out at the ocean. Michael and Jeremy keep setting off fireworks out over the cliff, heedless of Geoff’s pleas to wait until it’s night when they can see them better. Ryan sits and drinks diet eCola, occasionally munching on chips or beef jerky or whatever snack food gets passed his way, thoroughly content.

The Agency has been chased out of Los Santos, likely for good. Jeremy and Ryan know the Agency’s tricks, what signs to look for if they set up again, which the Agency is aware of. Even on the off-chance that the Agency attempts to set up in LS again, the Fakes have made it abundantly clear that Jeremy and Ryan aren’t worth going after. He’s safe, he’s truly _safe_ from the thing he fears most, from the thing that made him turn to crime and wear the mask all those years ago.

Jeremy settles beside him, further back from the edge, startling Ryan out of his thoughts.

“Bored of fireworks already?” Ryan asks.

Jeremy laughs a little, shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, “I just wanted to sit with you. How’re you holding up?”

Ryan runs a hand over the graze on his thigh. “I only got hit once, the body armor took care of the rest of it. Jack patched me up. It’s just a graze.”

“Not what I meant,” Jeremy says, “but I won’t push if you don’t wanna talk about it.”

And yeah, Ryan knew what Jeremy meant to begin with. His first instinct is always to brush it off, ignore it, don’t expose weakness. “I’ll be okay,” Ryan says. “The whole thing rattled me pretty badly.” He takes a deep breath. “But I think I came out stronger for it.” He thinks of Jack offering him food and hugs, of Gavin gaming with him for hours, of Geoff offering silent support. He recalls the taste of Lindsay’s cupcakes, the distraction provided by Trevor’s VR game, the entertainment of Fiona’s bullying, Michael’s fire, and Matt’s mugging. He thinks of Jeremy’s presence beside him all the while. “I think we all came out stronger, to be honest.”

“The crew really cares,” Jeremy says, and there’s too much longing in his voice for Ryan to be comfortable.

“They care about you, too,” Ryan says. He nudges Jeremy with his elbow. “They did this for you as much as they did it for me, you know. You wouldn’t have taken point with me if you were an afterthought.”

Jeremy grins and looks away. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess you’re right.”

Ryan nudges him again, harder. “Rimmy Tim is one of the Fakes, now,” he says. “I dunno about that Jeremy guy, but Rimmy Tim is.”

Jeremy shoves at him, laughing, and Ryan _almost_ loses balance and topples over the edge, but he knocks into someone on his other side.

Geoff steadies him, sets him back upright, and when did Geoff sit down? “I dunno, Ryan,” Geoff says, “that Jeremy kid’s alright.” He winks.

“_That Jeremy kid_ thought it would be acceptable to dye his hair orange and purple,” Ryan deadpans, “I’m not sure that counts as _alright_.”

“Alright, fuck _you_,” Jeremy says, still laughing, but his eyes are shining.

Geoff grins, settles back to lean on his hands with his legs dangling off the edge. “The Battle Buddies are a permanent fixture in this crew,” he says, and there’s a certain gravity to the statement. “’til death do us part, and all that.”

“Did you just marry us to the crew?” Ryan asks, “Or did we just marry you?”

Geoff wrinkles his nose. “The _crew_, you moron, not _me_.”

“What if I’m not ready to commit?” Jeremy asks, the little shit.

Ryan had been about to point out the fact that Geoff is _in_ the crew, so technically they married him anyways, but Jeremy’s jab is so much better. “I’m not sure I want to marry the entire crew,” Ryan says, “there’s just too many people. And the wedding night would be a hotdog-fest.”

“Forget it,” Geoff says miserably, “I don’t want either of you in my crew. You’re fired.”

Ryan and Jeremy laugh. “Too late,” Ryan says, “you just said we’re permanent. You’re stuck with us now.”

Geoff makes a miserable little whining noise and flops backwards on his back. Michael chooses that moment to set off a firework, the _shriiiieek-BOOM _startling Geoff so badly that hardly a moment after his back touches the roof, he flies up again. Ryan watches, bemused, as Geoff rises, yelling about fireworks and waiting until sunset and something about parachutes that has Jeremy scooting away from the edge another few inches.

And Ryan was horribly wrong, months ago, when Jeremy first joined the crew. He was so sure that life couldn’t get any better than it was, but he was completely and utterly wrong. Here, up on Mt. Chiliad, riding high on their victory, surrounded by his crew? Life is _grand_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done!! Thank you all for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> Next week: the plot thickens


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